Carry Me
by SiriusQrow84
Summary: Being best friends means more than being there for each other. Sometimes, the small things you give can strengthen your relationship even more. That's why Scott let Stiles crash at his place the night he appeared outside his room in tears. But his actions thereafter make him question how much he loves his best friend.
1. Rip You Off

**AN:** Another older Sciles fic I wrote. I own none of the characters. ~ "Rip you off and sew me up/The wounds will heal in time." – Eli Lieb, Undone.

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 _ **1\. Rip You Off.** _

The action that was taking place in _Into the Wild_ was picking up when Scott heard three knocks on his bedroom door. His mother was swamped with work, and she wouldn't be back until well after he had fallen asleep. Scott rose from his bed, placed the book on its face, and crossed over to the door, pushing aside shirts with his bare feet. Then his ears pricked. Unsteady heartbeats, pounding; ragged breaths, stifling sobs. Then he smelled the memorable scent of sweat and Irish Spring shower gel. He opened the door.

Stiles stood in the hallway, his brown hair matted to his forehead like a wet dog, his clothes clinging to his thin frame like a sheet, water dripping down his arms and falling to the ground, splattering on the hardwood floor. The tears that fell from his eyes caused the pupils to turn a bright red. He sniffled but tried to manage a smile when he looked at Scott. His hands loosely held a duffle bag that sagged to the ground.

"You mind if I crash here for a while?" he asked. "I just had an argument with my dad and things aren't really looking so good and—"

"Stiles," Scott cut him off, taking the duffel bag in his hands and making a way for the wet teenager to come in. "You don't have to explain yourself to me. Come on, you need a shower. You smell like wet dog." Stiles stifled a chuckle and took off his shoes, pacing the middle of the floor as Scott stuck his hand out. "I can wash your clothes with mine." Stiles began to peel his shirt off until it rose over his head and his bare skin was exposed. He handed the brown lump of cloth to Scott.

Scott went to the hamper, full of dirty clothes and cross-country gear, and tossed the shirt in the mix. Stiles then handed him the pair of soggy pants. Scott dumped the contents of the pockets onto his desk. He folded the pants and put it in the hamper. He then closed his eyes as Stiles took off his underwear and handed it to him.

"I'll be back up in five minutes," Scott said, eyes still closed, exiting the room. Outside, he could hear Stiles walking across his floor, turning on the light in the bathroom and locking the door. A smile flashed across Scott's face, but it was thin. He was Stiles' best friend. Being best friends always meant that you were there for each other, whatever the situation, big or small. That was the promise he and Stiles made together.

But his mind then traveled to thoughts of Sheriff Stilinski, and how he'd feel with his son hiding at his best friend's house. Scott loved Sheriff Stilinski like a father. In all of those years, without having his real father at home, the Sheriff filled the empty void in his heart. He'd take Scott and Stiles to baseball games when they were younger, and then would get them ice cream after the game. And the Sheriff never showed favoritism.

And then there was the time he hugged Scott for the first time. Scott felt like crying right there. A father figure hadn't embraced him in a long time, and it felt good to bury his face in someone who cared about him. So it made sense to feel like he was going behind the Sheriff's back. He dismissed the thought as best he could once he reached the washer in the basement.

He dumped the clothes in the tub, poured the detergent, and set it to start. He sat on top of the dryer as the washer rumbled, jerking marginally. He really cared for Stiles, but he wondered if it was selfish of him to be doing this. He had broken up with Allison months ago, and somehow, Stiles had filled that void—not romantically, but then again, not platonically. He cared about Stiles as much as he cared about his mom, and that was saying something. Stiles was his best friend—his _brother_ —after all.

He took the hamper and ascended the stairs, thinking about Stiles once he turned down the hall to his room and opened the door. Stiles was standing there in his sleep pants, hiding the thick bunny trail with a gray t-shirt that fell down his chest. He caught Scott's eyes when he crossed over to the desk to check his phone.

"You can sleep in my bed tonight, if you want." Scott said. Stiles tore his eyes from his phone. The tip of Scott's mouth rose a bit, showing the subtle sighs of a grin. Stiles nodded stoically, and found himself crossing over to the bed, pulling back the sheets and getting underneath. Scott took his book and sat down at the desk, writing up an old English assignment he forgot to turn in, even though it was a Friday night.

He looked over at Stiles, who was staring at the ceiling, his arms folded. He wondered if he'd speak, at least say something, like what he and his dad argued about, what was so horrible that it brought him over here—not that being here was a bad thing, but Scott had to know.

"He forgot the anniversary," Stiles said finally, "How can he do that, you know? As if it were just some regular day. He didn't even want to hear me out." Scott knew what the anniversary was. He knew when his mother had told him the night she got home from work. It was long after his father had left, when he still had to stay over the neighbors' house until she rang the doorbell to take him home. It was the night where she had said, 'Honey, you know things happen for a reason,' and he nodded, and she then told him the worst news in the world. 'Stiles' mom isn't coming back.'

"Maybe he was just swamped at work," Scott offered from across the room, "I mean, hasn't there been a lot of traffic at the station lately?"

"Are you siding with him?" Stiles asked, the tension building in his voice as he sat up in bed. "Are you seriously doing this, Scott? This town is only but so big, how much work does he really have?" Scott crossed over to his bed when Stiles' voice broke, and the tears were falling from his face. Scott sat on the other side of the bed, putting a hand gently on Stiles' back, rubbing it.

"Hey, it's okay," Scott said, "I know how you feel, and your dad means well. He cares, okay? Maybe he's handling it differently this year." Every year before this one, the Stilinskis would visit Claudia Stilinski's grave. Devoted wife, loving mother, the town's best writer. That's what it said on her tombstone. Stiles would take flowers—carnations, her favorite—and the Sheriff would say a few words. It was a sacred moment between the two of them. Even Scott couldn't interrupt their moment with Mrs. Stilinski.

"I just feel like he doesn't care anymore," Stiles cried, "I don't think he cares about any of it. I know we've been doing this for as long as I can remember, but come on. One day. He can't sacrifice one day? Not even a full day, more like half an hour. He can give up thirty minutes of his life each year to recognize his dead wife, my dead mother? It's like he doesn't even care about her anymore, let alone me."

"Stiles," Scott used his words lightly, "your dad loves you, more than anything in the world. He'd be terrified if anything happened to you. Why do you think he doesn't care? He might be going through something. I know he doesn't want you thinking that things are going south." Scott pulled tissues from a shelf and handed them to Stiles, who dabbed at his eyes and blew his nose. He balled up the tissue in his fist, his skin turning white as it clenched the cloth.

"But it's hard to think that way," he cried, sniffling some more, "I just don't know anymore, Scott. I just wish he would've at least apologized. You know what he said to me? 'We have other things to worry about.' That's what he said. Right there in the kitchen before he left for work. And I'm standing there like an idiot, trying not to cry in front of him, wanting to just lash out. But I couldn't. I couldn't do it. Jesus, I couldn't do it." Stiles fell down on the pillow, crying into it.

Scott was judging his next moves, wondering what to do. He lowered himself on his bed next to Stiles, staring at his back. Stiles shook softly, and then turned over until his eyes met Scott's. They were staring at each other in silence. Scott then realized he truly loved Stiles, even in his vulnerable states.

"You're going to be okay, do you know why?" Scott asked. Stiles shook his head. "Because you're my brother, and I love you." Scott brought a hand to Stiles' cheek, and inched closer until his lips met Stiles' forehead, pressing slightly, then forcibly kissing the skin. When Scott pulled his face away, Stiles didn't know if he should've returned the gesture or just gape awkwardly.

"I love you, too," Stiles returned, giving a weird weak-hearted smile. "Thanks for letting me stay." He turned over and turned off the light, leaving Scott to his thoughts. His stomach was doing somersaults, making him ache. He felt like he couldn't move. He could even shift his feet. What did he do that for? He had never kissed Stiles before.

Actually, there was that one time when they were kids, and they wanted to see what it was like. That was his first kiss, but it didn't really count, because it wasn't a kiss shared between two teenagers. It was a kiss shared between two kids who were curious and comfortable enough to share that moment with each other. It was harmless. It was an experiment. It was something that they both agreed to do.

But this one…this one was different. Scott did it _willingly_ , without the consent of Stiles. He did it because he felt it was necessary. It was true that he loved Stiles, but did he love him like a best friend, a brother, or something more? The faint light at his desk tore him from thought temporarily as he went to shut it off. The room would've been completely dark if it weren't for the blinds that were slit, letting the moonlight in.

As long as they had been friends, Stiles had always been there for Scott, and Scott had always been there to return the favor. They knew each other longer than they knew the others. Before Lydia, before Allison, before Jackson, before Derek, before Erica and Boyd, and before Isaac.

It was just the two of them, fighting the world together. But their monsters weren't werewolves or hunters. Their monsters were cooties, and bullies on the playground, and teenagers who tried to buy the last copy of the Spiderman comic. Their monsters were Scott's dad when he walked out on him and his mom, and the cancer that consumed Claudia and took her from Stiles and his dad.

What could've happened to make Scott want to do that? It was a simple kiss on the forehead, a sign of love, platonically and brotherly. But the feeling in the bottom of his heart signified more than that. He returned to his bed, lying on his side as Stiles' soft snores came from the other. He looked at his back once more, the way his hips rose up and down with each breath of air that escaped his nose.

He didn't feel awkward with the kiss. It was something he had thought would be normal between the two of them. Friends did it all the time, right? Small things that showed that they still cared about their relationship, that they didn't want it to change? But Stiles' face…Scott couldn't tear that image from his mind. It was a look of shock, but also a look of honest pleasure.

Did Stiles like the kiss? Not romantically…no, not romantically. But did he understand what it meant to Scott? That they were more than best friends, more than brothers even? That Scott thought, even when they went off into the world and had families, that they could still be the greatest friends in the world? That maybe Stiles would have a kid or two, and Scott would be the godfather, or vice versa? That they would go to the golf courses and play a game before their kids had to be picked up from elementary school?

Scott was feeling all of these things as he lay there, staring at the ceiling. He felt his cheeks sting from the tears that fell from his eyes. He couldn't dare think about asking Stiles if he was okay with the kiss. He didn't want to.

He wanted to believe that it was okay, because he knew deep down that he and Stiles would be together until they decided to start a separate chapter in their lives. That, before any of those future events that played like a movie in Scott's mind could happen, it all started that night when Scott showed Stiles how much he loved him.

Scott didn't reach out to Stiles. He didn't do anything that'd alarm the boy from sleep. He just turned on his side, facing Stiles' back, crying silently to himself as Stiles continued to sleep. He couldn't stop the tears from falling, because he knew how it felt to be one half of the same coin. And when the other half was hurting, you couldn't help but hurt, too.


	2. Sew Me Up

**AN:** Decided to give it a shot and continue it.

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 ** _2\. Sew Me Up._**

There was something about having a best friend with you at your mother's grave. Having Scott with Stiles made him feel warm inside his jacket, even though he shivered against the chilling wind. His cheeks were rosy, he was sure of it. They always turned a bright pink when he was cold. It outlined his moles, made them stand out more than they already did. He still debated on whether he liked his moles or not. It seemed like such a silly thing to do, but he found himself thinking about it more and more. Whether he got them from his mom, or if his dad's parents had them. No one was able to tell him, so he just speculated.

A bouquet of carnations rested in his hands. He tightened his grip on the stem until his skin stretched. The jeep was parked underneath an oak tree. The leaves began to fell early that year, coating the hood in shades of red and yellow. Scott sat on the passenger's side, staring at Stiles through the windshield. Stiles didn't ask him to stay in the car, but he understood - or so to speak, he tried to wrap his mind around the reason why Scott wanted to give him space. It felt awkward, standing there alone in front of the tombstone that had braved the rain and the snow. He really wished his father was there.

"I remember," Stiles said, clearing his throat, " - I remember how you would always read to me at night. But you weren't like other mothers. You didn't read me stories about princes and knights in shining armor, or dragons, or any of that crap. You told me the darkest stories in the world, stories that I should've been afraid of - stories about men dying to protect the people who hated them; men who were seduced by creatures beyond their imagination; and men who could turn into beasts - not because of a curse, but because of their current state of mind. But I wasn't afraid because you wrote about them. I believed that if you wrote about them, then you met them, and they weren't so bad after all because they didn't kill you.

I remember all of them, mom. I remember the stories about the victims, and the sirens, and the shifters. And as a kid, you're not supposed to believe in that stuff. You're supposed to go to school and get good grades, then go off in the world pretending that the monsters weren't real. That they were just figments of your imagination. But it only made me aware of the true monsters. I've met monsters - no, I met _people_. And the world makes them out to be these people who you're supposed to be afraid of, but you taught me to look at them in a different light. 'Don't look at them as if you were in their shoes. Look at them as if they were experiencing their last day on earth, and they couldn't do a thing about it.'

That's what your writing meant to me. It was never about the heroes winning the girls, or the families and the town being safe. It was about the people who were dealt a difficult hand. They couldn't whine about it, because they had to get up every morning and face it. And some of them lashed out because they were angry, not because they were evil. Well, I've seen some angry people, and hurt people, and people who only cared about the world because they were living for others and not themselves, because they could care less where they end up. And you know? They were all the same on the inside. They were just dealt that difficult hand. So thanks, mom. Thanks for teaching me that, because if you didn't, then I would've grown up blind."

He placed the carnations in the grass where the dirt had been replaced many years ago. Scott came up beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder. Stiles wiped at the forming tears in his eyes, trying to keep a level head. He looked up at Scott's warm face, saw the beady brown eyes stare back at him through the cold. The slight touches sent a jolt of shock through Stiles' body, made him feel good.

"It's going to be okay," Scott said. "I'm here for you." Stiles turned his body towards Scott's, coming closer until he was able to bury his face in his friend's shoulder. Stiles felt Scott's arms wrap around his body, holding him close, keeping him warm against the cold. His eyes were shut, and he felt a darkness wash in, but light came in afterwards when his eyes began to flutter, and he felt a tear trickle down the side of his face. At that moment, a pinch of closure began to knock at his heart, pounding until a small smile crept along his face.


	3. The Wounds Will Heal In Time

**AN:** The final chapter in _Carry Me_.

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 _ **3\. The Wounds Will Heal In Time.**_

Scott was very young the last time he had been to the Sheriff's office. It was a rainy night in October, a few days before his birthday. He was over Miss Jennings' house eating dinner when his mother had rang the doorbell. There were tears in her eyes, although she wiped at them when she noticed Scott was staring, and tried to smile, even when Miss Jennings told her it was okay not to. Scott piled his things into the backseat of the old, beat-up sedan while Melissa drove them down the road to the police station. She asked to see the Sheriff for "personal business," and the receptionist officer out front smiled down at Scott, who still didn't know what was going on.

"Where's dad?" he asked Melissa. She looked at him, tried to smile again, and just held his hand tightly. Scott never got his answer. She knocked on the office door, and they waited until the Sheriff answered. Scott could make out Stiles' small frame in the desk chair behind the Sheriff's massive frame. He smiled down at Scott, but it soon faded when he caught Melissa stifling her cries, holding a hand to her mouth. He made Stiles sit outside with Scott while they talked. With the door closed, Scott wished he could hear what was going on. Just an inkling to why his mom was crying. But Stiles broke his concentration soon after and Scott found his nose buried in the words of _The Beast of Baker Hollow_ , written by Claudia Stilinski. Stiles liked reading him a few parts because they were his mother's words, but that night, Stiles thought it best for Scott to read.

"'Some say that the beast of Baker Hollow was once a human being like us all: with a family, a job, someone to come home to, children to play with, and a life to live,'" Scott read, Stiles listening closely even though he'd read the story a hundred times already, "'but it's actually quite the opposite. The beast was never born a human being. It was always a beast. And it wasn't love that made it human in the end. Instead, it was acceptance. That's all it ever wanted. And as the author of this tale, I was glad to see him make it out alright in the end, because the least people deserve in this world is a chance.'" Scott didn't know why, but being with Stiles made him feel better. They had only known each other for a few years, no longer than five, but somehow the kid with the shaggy brown hair and the gap in between his teeth could make Scott smile and laugh as if he'd never done it before. But that was then.

The Sheriff kept his office the same in the years that passed in Beacon Hills. It was still small, with mahogany tiling on the walls and a tan carpet that smelled of pine and Lysol. The crimson red-rimmed clock was still ticking on the wall to the left, right over the private bathroom that was littered with hair products and shaving cream. There was a small bookshelf that hung on the wall, filled to the capacity with periodicals and nonfiction titles. Off to the left of it was a separate shelf, with a golden plaque over it that read _The Works of Claudia Stilinski._

There were two windows that looked out into the parking lot of the station. The blinds were always slit in the mornings, pouring the sunlight over the desk and onto the floor like buttermilk. It was the desk that had changed over the years. Before, it was tidy and organized, with files placed in the drawers and a nameplate. Now, it was just what it was supposed to be: just a desk to hold too many things and never give offer something new.

Scott and Stiles took their seats in front of Sheriff Stilinski. His hands were meshed together, fingers locked underneath his chin, his eyes set on the boys. He looked at them like any father and father-figure would. He was concerned for the both of time, Scott could feel it. The bags under his eyes had grown in size and there was a stench of alcohol on his breath when he yawned.

But there was something about the way he sat and the way he stared that made Scott feel as if he had made a promise to Melissa to look out for her boy. It made him feel warm. Happy, even. But Stiles could barely keep himself together, the tears falling as he sat there, shrinking into the little boy who found out that his mother had died. It only made Scott feel horrible, as if there was a protective bubble around the Stilinski men and he was trying to force it open with a needle.

"The only reason why I asked Scott to come here," Stiles said, the light timbre in his voice breaking the unsettling silence, "is because I feel like he's as much a part of this as we are. He may not be blood related, but he is related over all. He became family the night his mom came here and broke down to you."

"Stiles, where are you getting at?" the Sheriff asked, "Now's not really the best time to be bothering me with this." Stiles stomped his feet and slammed his fists down on the arms of his chair. He stood up, resting his hands on the desk, spreading his long fingers. The veins were forming in his forehead, the spidery lines filling out the skin as the shadows around his eyes grew dark.

"Why do you always do that?" he asked, his voice rising, "You act like you don't care anymore. Like if I press you any further, you're going to snap and say something that'll hurt me. I want to talk to you as your son, the only person left to remind you of mom, but you don't even want to talk to me. Why don't you want to talk me, dad?"

"Stiles, please, you and Scott go, now."

"No!" Stiles barked, crying, "I'm your son! You should want to talk to me and ask me how I'm feeling. You should want to tell me that I need to get my act together and I should be doing better in school. You should want to do those things, but you can't even look at me and say that! Am I bothering you? Huh? Is my presence disturbing you? Is the fact that I _look_ like her hurting you on the inside?" This time, the Sheriff stood up, the veins in his arms pushing against the skin as he balled up his fists.

"That's enough!" he shouted, "No get out of here before I do something I'll regret. I'm giving you thirty seconds." But Stiles was already at the bookshelf holding his mother's books, pulling them out by the spines and throwing them across the room. Scott ducked when one came flying his way. "Stiles Stilinski!" the Sheriff shouted, coming from behind the desk towards his son. "Stiles! Stop that!"

"Oh, he reacts!" Stiles shouted at Scott, his eyes a bright red, "He finally does something to show he cares! How about this then?" Stiles took one of the books and took the book jacket off, throwing it to the floor. He slammed it against the wall, more and more until the banging became unbearable. "Or this?" He repeated the process with another book. Scott looked at the Sheriff. He wasn't moving, either. He just stood there, watching Stiles react wildly, defacing the shelf.

"Stiles," the Sheriff said in a calmer voice, just as other officers began appearing outside, banging on the door. "Everything's fine," the Sheriff shouted. There was silence as Stiles stood around the pile of books at his feet. He took in the scenery with watery eyes, stifling his cries, looking at his father from his face to the gun in its holster. Then he saw his hands. And the one hand that gripped his belt.

"It's not there," he whispered, almost gasped, "it's not there..." He went for his father and inspected the hand more. The ring finger was bare, just like all the others. Stiles looked his father in his eyes, but he wasn't the forceful brute he was before. His eyes were full and large, like a deer in shock. "Why did you...why..."

"Stiles, it's time we moved on," the Sheriff said, "I wanted to tell you. I really did. I don't mind visiting the grave. I just...I can't keep doing this to myself."

"Doing what, honoring your wife?" Stiles asked.

"Hurting myself physically and emotionally over her," the Sheriff shot back, tears forming in his own eyes, "I love her just as much as you do. I've known her my whole life, grew up with her. I was there when she found out she was pregnant with you. I was the one who smiled when she gave you your name. I took you from her when she had to rest. I held you the day you were born, and she smiled at me. I was there for every book publishing, every signing, every conference she ever held. I helped her along the way, and I cannot bound myself to her any longer. She wouldn't want this."

"It's just thirty minutes of your time, dad," Stiles cried, "you can't give up thirty minutes?" Scott watched as the two of them began to break down in front of each other, how this woman who had meant so much to them could get them to cry together. How, even though the Sheriff wasn't always soft, he wasn't afraid to show his son that he can cry, too. Now Scott felt like he was intruding even more.

"We can't keep doing this, son," the Sheriff, "I'm not banning you from seeing her, but I'm not going to send you to your grave, either. She's lived her life for us. She would want us to start living for ourselves now." Stiles didn't answer. He didn't do anything. But the Sheriff took him in his arms and held him tightly. He kissed his forehead, and Stiles began to cry into his shirt. "It's okay," the Sheriff said, rubbing Stiles back, "it's okay, Stiles. I'm here."

"I just miss her," Stiles muffled into the shirt. The Sheriff nodded.

"I do, too," he said, "but I'm here for you. I love you, son." Scott was reminded of that visit once again, when his mother came out of the office. She wasn't crying anymore, but she wasn't happy. The Sheriff had called Stiles over to hug her goodbye, and he called Scott over to hug. And he crouched low so that he could look Scott in the eyes, and he whispered in his ear, "It's okay. I'm here." And Scott felt his heart sink when he heard those words, because the Sheriff was always there, but he was never _there_. Now things were different, and Scott had seen a lot. He had met new people, he and Stiles were friends, even brothers, and things had changed a lot in the town. But what always stayed the same was the tone of voice the Sheriff always used whenever he said it was okay.

"I love you, too," Stiles returned, "I'm sorry." The Sheriff looked at Scott in the chair and opened his free arm. Scott didn't know if he should have went, but the look in Stiles' eyes meant more than just okay. He was expecting him to come. Scott stretched out of the chair and crossed over to the Stilinskis, making sure not to step on the books on the floor. He pressed his face in the Sheriff's shirt, felt his arm wrap around him.

Scott could feel heat emitting from Stiles' body. He felt a few tears fall from his eyes. The Sheriff had never declared that he was a second father to Scott or that he loved him too, but he didn't have to. Scott could tell in the way he held him, the way he had whispered in his ear years ago, the way he smiled whenever he was with Stiles. You never had to admit things like that. You just knew. It felt good knowing that Scott had someone he loved to look up to. It felt good knowing that he didn't have to face it all alone.


End file.
